


An Opportunity to Grieve Unalone.

by melroseplace



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Delusions, Eventual Smut, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melroseplace/pseuds/melroseplace
Summary: Basically, I thought 'What if John became obsessive over the Delivery Girl in John Wick after he sees her as a gift from his deceased wife, Helen--and I came up with this.
Relationships: John Wick/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	An Opportunity to Grieve Unalone.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this is going but I hope y'all are strapped in.

“The Wick order is finally going out tonight, huh? Are you going to be the one delivering it, Maggie?” Magdalena nods, looking over at her co-worker as she prepared for her run of the day. Helen Wick--an insanely nice woman, who happened to be dying. Kevlin, the delivery company she worked for, did specialize in delivery pets for different reasons and occasions. The woman organized a special delivery, one with an unclear date. With ongoing communication with Mrs. Wick, they began preparation last year, and a month ago, she was pronounced dead in the bed of a university hospital room.

Magdalena cried in the break room the day the news broke. She’d gotten to know the woman over planning--Helen, as she insisted the young woman to call her, was a photographer. She’d met her husband about five or six years prior, and from the picture she showed and emailed, they were happy together. Their story made Magdalena, a hopeless romantic swoon and grin.

To be separated from each other that, must’ve been torture. Magdalena remembered when her mother died she was torn up for a reasonable amount of time over it before she decided that life had to go on. She was alone to grieve her mother that died--her mother who had adopted her and tried so hard to take care of her.

She was a woman in her sixties named Denise that took her in at a young age. She wasn’t her birth mother but was the closet thing to one for her. And then, there was the day she started to forget. First, it was small, like what she had forgotten her car keys, then she forgot bigger things like names and dates.

Eventually, things got bad enough that they visited a doctor.

At the hospital, they’d chalked up her symptoms to stress and eighteen-year-old Magdalena accepted it, hoping it was the reason for her mother’s condition. Then, she got worse; she couldn’t move after a while, so they opted to let her mother rest in their one-bedroom home. She spent her late teens and her early twenties giving her mother medication, helping her take baths, and cooking her favorites.

“Hey, Young Lady--have you seen my baby Maggie? That girl’s always getting into stuff, baby girl started walking, and she’s gotten into the flour twice.”

She was an older woman, things like this were bound to happen--but it scared Magdalena so much regardless.

She pulled in more shifts as a cleaning girl, taking care of her mother who couldn’t seem to be able to get out of bed, who only remembered her as the infant she found on her doorstep. She dropped her college plans. She slept next to her, she fed her--all in hopes that her mother would get better.

But, she never did.

The one person she wanted to see smile the most had become a star.

She woke up to her mother’s cold body beside her. After a few hours of crying and holding her mother’s body, she tried to get used to reality. Her mother was dead, and she was on her own.

Now at twenty-seven, she found comfort in her life. She was living well, something her mother would’ve wanted for her.

Thought of her past aside, she stood, thinking about her assignment--the Wick order. Tonight, she’d meet the man that made Helen so happy, although the circumstances that were a bit unsavory. She smiles at the little beagle in front of her, scratching it behind her ears.

“Come on girl, let’s get you into the kennel.”

With her orange jumpsuit on, Magdalena made her way to the Wick’s residence. It was getting darker earlier, so she didn’t have much daylight to work with. Parking on the side of the street, she gave herself a quick pep talk and went to retrieve the kennel. She silently approaches the home, her afro puffs rippled in the breeze of slight autumn wind. 

Knocking, on the door, she hears the puppy whimper. She’s met with a man, one that’s cold-looking and looks like he’s grieving. He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His dark, hooded eyes glare at her, guarded and red--as if he’d been crying not too long before.

“John Wick?”

“Yes?” Sitting down the dog kennel, Magdalena hands him the sign and release form for the pup.

“Sign here, please.”

After a beat, she scribbles something on a piece of paper she tore off of the receipt--her number. She gives it to him, giving him an encouraging smile. Getting back looks of confusion, she realizes how misunderstood (or perhaps not understood at all) the situation was and fleshes out further explanation.

“Oh, I--uh--I’m not trying hit on you or nothing! My mama she real sick too, and they found it late, like with your wife. I’m sure at the time I would’ve felt a lot better if I had someone to talk to. Here’s my number--we could talk, maybe I could recommend a few support groups for what you’re going through. It’s not major or anything, but it’s s great to start as far as help goes.” He stares at the piece of paper for a moment before glancing back at her, eyes quiet and unreceptive, before speaking in a deep, grave voice.

“Thanks--?”

“It’s Maggie. Good night, Mr. Wick.”

....

....

John’s stare lingered on the young lady who’s just left before he read the letter his now-deceased wife left him posthumously.

‘Dear, John. If you have received this, then I have not survived the surgery--I am so, so sorry.’ Tears bubbled in her weary eyes at the sight of Helen’s words. His beautiful wife--a person who’s existence gave his life meaning--meaning aside from past; something he left behind for her.

‘John, I'm sorry I can't be there for you. But you still need something, someone, to love. So start with this. Because the car doesn't count. I love you, John. This illness has loomed over us for a long time, and now that I have found my peace, find yours. Until that day, your best friend, Helen.’ John, breathing swallow breathes, thinks about the girl that left after seeing the piece of scrap paper with her email on it.

Her smile, her connection to Helen, her words. 

He looks over at a photo of her and him, smiling at a beach.

‘But you still need something, someone, to love.’

“Did you send me an Angel, Helen?”


End file.
